Maid Of Dishonor
by Princess Pinky
Summary: Why wasn't Mels Amy's Matron of Honor?


**A/N:** This is just a random ficlet idea that popped into my head recently.

_**Maid Of Dishonor**_

"Mels."

"What, _Pops_, come to teach me a lesson before you hand over the bail money?" Mels smirked from the other side of the visitation Plexiglas.

Rory's face remained stony. His arms were folded across his skinny chest, his shoulder erect, and his eyes set stubbornly on Mels's as though a tractor beam connected them. "What did you say to Amy?"

She'd never heard that tone before. In all the times he'd scolded and chastised her throughout the years, it had never cut through her armor like it did now. And having been raised a weapon, she had near _impenetrable_ armor. Apparently it was nothing against the sword of guilt drawn by the Last Centurion, even if he had yet to take on that title.

"I haven't said anything to her," Mels finally answered. That was true, for once. She hadn't said anything to her: not since the fight they'd had which had ended with Amy near tears. Not that her mother would ever admit to that; Amelia Pond was the type who held in her emotions around others until they burst her heart's seems in a bloody mess of emotion.

"Then the part about you refusing to be Amy's Matron of Honor at the wedding is just a simple misunderstanding?"

Mels shut her eyes. "No," she said firmly, "I made it very clear that I don't do weddings."

"Damnit, Mels!" Rory slammed his fist against the table and Mels could feel the vibration even from the other side of the Plexiglas. "You're our best mate! _Her_ best mate! Can't you just think of someone other than yourself for once in your bloody life?!"

Were she not a soldier, born and bred, she might've flinched. Inside she certainly did. But to the naked human eye she was as cool and collected as a bespoken psychopath should be. "I don't do weddings," she said again. She pushed her chair back and the metal legs screeched against the cement floor. The wretched noise was welcome because it momentarily drowned out her thoughts.

Namely, that Rory was right: she _was_ being selfish. If she showed up at her parents' wedding, she would have to kill The Doctor, and yet that was also the night that she was supposed to be conceived on the TARDIS. It was a matter of self preservation. There was no way she could show up at the wedding and not want to take The Doctor out right then and there for all the pain he'd allowed to happen throughout all of time and space. She being the prime example of atrocities he'd allowed to happen: being stolen at birth, raised as a lab rat in a NASA cage, and then being left to die of starvation on the cold streets of 1969 New York.

Her hearts yearned to tell him everything: how much she wanted to stand right beside them as they said their vows, watch them slide rings onto each others' fingers, and tell the most horrific stories that would be sure to make the whole room blush crimson when she gave her post-nuptials toast. But the significant factor was, yet again, Amy's precious _Timeboy_. She had been robbed of her first childhood with her parents and all of those important moments and now, here she was again, being robbed of another one. As such was her life.

Rory kicked his chair back as Mels stood and turned her back to him, pressing the button to buzz the officer and end their visitation. He hit the Plexiglas with both palms. "I am ashamed of you!" he hollered. "I am ashamed for you because you don't have the decency to be ashamed for yourself! You're disappointing me, and worse, you're disappointing Amy!"

Mels shut her eyes and felt the skin pucker up around them. She kept her back to him to preserve her own pride. On the outside – from Rory's perspective of her back that is – she could reasonably assume that her rigid posture gave nothing away. The soldier remained, inflexible and apathetic, but inside she was a screaming. She hadn't felt so trapped – so helpless and alone – since the day that she had escaped the spacesuit. Now, all she wanted to do was run away again, as far away from her father's guilt and her mother's pain as she could, but no where on Earth was far enough.

The cold cement of her prison cell would have to suffice. And maybe if she was bad enough, she could stay there just long enough to avoid her parents' wedding all together. She'd have to ensure that, because she was afraid if she had to look into her parents' eyes one more time – if her father told her that she disappointed him to her face – she just might give in and that wasn't a risk she was willing to take.


End file.
